


Some Approximation of Friendship

by lateralus112358



Series: Juvenile Delinquents [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Kids, School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 13:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8670214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lateralus112358/pseuds/lateralus112358
Summary: Root and Shaw navigate the wasteland of middle school.





	1. Shaw, Meet Root

“Let’s be friends.”

You look up from your sandwich, and find that, much to your discontent, someone else has sat down at your table. It’s the furthest table back in the cafeteria, in the corner where half the lights don’t work, next to the garbage can that never gets emptied and gives off the smell of toxic waste. The only person other than you who ever sits here is the weird kid who’s like 16 but somehow still in middle school, and you and he have a strict policy of never speaking or even acknowledging one another’s existence.

These qualities are what led you to choose this table to consume your meals at, way back when you first started going to school here. You’ve never really made any friends; most other kids are weirded out by you and, after what your mom refers to as ‘the incident,’ scared of you. And honestly, the antipathy goes both ways; you’ve never really felt lonely, or had any desire to make friends; solitude suits you just fine.

Which makes this present intrusion even more galling. You don’t recognize her, this girl who decided to interrupt your lunch by sitting down directly across from you. She’s tall and skinny, dark hair, and she looks a little manic. You finish your assessment of her, and resume eating your sandwich without responding to her proposal. Maybe she’ll take the hint.

“My name’s Root.”

Apparently not.

“That’s not a name.” You grunt at her. Hostility has proven effective at defusing conversations in the past. She doesn’t respond, so you risk a glance up to see if you’ve managed to scare her off. 

No luck. She’s just looking at you, a wide smile on her face. It suddenly occurs to you that she’s tricked you into talking to her, so you hastily cast your gaze down again and continue to ignore her.

She doesn’t say anything for the rest of the period, but she doesn’t leave either, she just stays and eats her lunch, occasionally looking up and staring at you for an uncomfortably long time. The bell rings, and you’re halfway across the cafeteria before she even gets out of her chair.

***

Annoying girl is in your math class too. ‘Root’. You say it sarcastically in your head. She smiles at you as you walk to your seat, and find to your infuriation that she has chosen the seat directly behind you. You fix your most powerful glare on her. She responds by smiling and waving at you. 

“Someone else sits there.” You say shortly, dropping your backpack and sliding into your seat.

“Not anymore, he got his classes switched.” She grins and winks at you. “Something weird with the computers.”

You don’t know what the hell she’s trying to say with that. 

Class starts and you try to pay attention, but you can feel her watching you. You press your pencil onto your notebook so hard that the lead snaps.

***

She’s sitting right in front of you. You want to reach out and touch her hair. Can’t, though. But you want to. Stop! You have to stop thinking about it. Listen to the teacher. What’s he talking about? Graphing functions, boring, like you don’t already know how to do that. You look at Shaw again. You’ve been watching her for a few days now, trying to work up the nerve to talk to her. You don’t usually make many friends, people think you’re weird. Shaw’s different, though. Not like other people. She doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her. She’s dangerous, too, in a way that really excites you. And her hair is gorgeous. Stop! You’re doing it again. Stop thinking about her hair and what it must feel like. Think about something else. It had been really easy to switch your classes around to match Shaw’s. The school database wasn’t even protected, you just had to guess the password for the principal’s PC, switch stuff around, then just spoof a few emails from administration. Easy. Wasn’t even a challenge.

Definitely worth it though.

***

Root’s in your other classes, too. All of them. How is that possible?! You’ve never even seen her before today and now she’s suddenly got some invisible tether that doesn’t let her get more than twenty feet away from you.

When school lets out, you stalk out of your class and out of the building as quickly as you can, fuming. You need to get home and cool down, otherwise you’re going to end up hitting someone. 

She’s still following you, she’s visible just at the edge of your vision when you take a corner. You stop on the sidewalk, other kids weaving around you as they either walk home, or to the parking lot. You clench and unclench your fists, and take a deep breath like your mom told you, and try to calm down. She’ll kill you if you get in trouble for fighting again. 

You open your eyes and whatever calm you had managed to accumulate superheats and instantly evaporates. Root’s standing right next to you, head tilted, not even bothering to mask the fact that she’s following you. With a growl, you storm off down the sidewalk, Root right beside you, almost in lockstep.

“Why do you keep following me?!” You almost shout at her.

“I like you.”

You walk faster, but her long legs keep stride with you. “I don’t like you. Leave me alone.”

She actually looks hurt for a moment, then her face returns to its normal, obnoxiously bright state. She’s about to say something, when a sharp voice from somewhere behind you calls, “Samantha! It’s time to go!”

Root freezes, and you keep walking. Finally.

***

“Sameen, honey, are you OK?” Your mom casts a concerned look at you from across the table. You’ve just been picking at your steak, spearing pieces on your fork, and then watching them slide off and flop back onto your plate. 

“I’m fine.” You say, and the room descends into silence again. Dinners have been quiet a lot, since your dad’s been gone. He always made meals a very lively event, telling stories that made your mom laugh, or throwing bits of food at you while she wasn’t looking. 

Your stomach churns again, like it has been all day, and you push your plate away, and get up from the table. Your mom looks over at you as you exit the room, but she doesn’t say anything. You take the stairs two at a time, go in your room, close the door behind you, and flop down face-first on your bed.

You know your mom is worried about you, that you don’t have any friends. You’ve tried to explain to her that you really don’t mind, that you like being on your own, that you don’t need anyone else, but you’re not sure she really believes you. When you were younger, she used to set up ‘play dates’ with other kids; that stopped rather quickly, miniature catastrophes that they turned out to be. A year ago, she got you to try out for sports (soccer, you wanted football but the school didn’t have a girls’ team), hoping, you suppose, that you’d build some sort of camaraderie and discover the true meaning of friendship or something. That didn’t happen, but you found that you liked it a lot, it gave you that same sort of ecstatic rush that fighting does, and winning makes you feel the same way you do when you do really well on a test, only better. You were cut from the team a few weeks later for “overly aggressive playstyle.” 

You know your mom loves you, and she always tells you, just like your dad used to, that there’s nothing wrong with being different, but sometimes you wonder if she’d be happier with a normal daughter, who smiled and had friends and didn’t start fights just for the adrenaline rush.

You turn on the TV, and flip through the channels. There’s a football game on.

***

The rest of the week goes the same way. Root sits behind you in all your classes, and sits at your table every day at lunch, where she alternates between staring at you and chattering away about anything that comes to her mind. You steadfastly ignore all her overtures, but she seems completely unfazed. She doesn’t try to follow you home again, though. After the last bell rings, she heads to the parking lot, while you walk home.

You do homework over the weekend. There’s no rush like there is with fighting, or sports, but it’s still very satisfying. You don’t understand most feelings that people talk about (except anger, which you’re pretty good at), but you think you sort of understand pride. It’s like the swooshing in your stomach when you score a goal, or when you figure out how to solve a math problem. You like that sensation, and you like being good at things. It’s just a matter of finding things that are suited to you. You know there are some things you can’t do because of the way you are, like getting married, or making friends, but you think there are a lot of places where it would be useful to not have any emotions. Like if you were a judge. Or a doctor. Something like that.

You get out a new piece of paper and start graphing the next equation.

***

Monday. Burger day at the cafeteria. You look around for Shaw, and find her where you always find her. She always sits by herself, and she never talks to anyone. People seem to avoid her the same way they do you. Maybe she’s lonely too.

You walk over to Shaw’s table. Sit across from her or sit next to her? Sit next to her. She doesn’t look up at you. You wonder what she’d do if you scooted closer. You scoot closer. Nothing. Maybe closer? You’re almost touching now. She’s still not looking up but she’s not moving either. Just sitting stone still right next to you, hands clenched on the table. You want to grab her hand and see if she’d pull it away, or if she’d let you. She’s not looking at you but you’re looking at her. She’s so pretty. Should you tell her? What would she do? Maybe you should - 

“You’re pretty.”

Well OK, you said it before you finished your thought. You do that a lot. She actually looks up at you, though, which she doesn’t normally do. It’s hard to read her expressions, but you think she looks kind of surprised. Maybe no one ever tells her she’s pretty? Everyone should tell her she’s pretty. No, wait, only you should tell her. No one else. Actually, maybe she just looked up at you because you’ve entered her sphere of personal space. She doesn’t say anything to you, and scoots further down the bench, away from you. You immediately move down as well, until you’re right next to her again, despite her glare.

“Do you want this?” You ask, gesturing at the burger on your tray. You have a theory that she will respond better to actions then to words.

“…You’re not going to eat it?” Aha. Your plan is paying dividends already; she’s talking to you. You are rapidly accelerating down the path to friendship.

“I don’t eat meat.” You tell her, and she looks at you like you’re insane. You’re used to that look though, lots of people direct it at you. She slowly and mistrustfully takes the burger from your tray, and bites into it.

“Thanks,” She mumbles, around a mouthful of food.

“You’re welcome.” You grin at her. “Do you want to break into the principal’s office?”

***

You ask to be excused, and then walk out of the classroom into the hallway, two minutes after Root, just like she told you to. Her plan had been oddly specific, actually, and you wonder whether she’s done this before. 

Probably.

She’s waiting for you around the corner. “Come on, hurry up!” She gestures at you to follow her, a manic glint in her eye. You realize, in the rational part of your brain, that this is a pretty stupid idea, and that Root is probably insane, and that your mom is going to be really pissed if she has to leave work to come pick you up. But the rational part of your brain is shoved aside by the part of your brain that’s flooded with adrenaline, and you follow her down the hall.

“She goes out for lunch every day for about an hour,” Root tells you quietly. “Not exactly a dedicated public servant. But that’s good for us. Come on.”

You pass a few teachers on the way, but you walk like you’re allowed to be here, and no one questions you. Root grins sidelong at you, and you smile back without thinking about it. Then you do think about it, and promptly remove the smile from your face. It’s exciting, though, blatantly flouting the rules like this. Your heart speeds up.

“Do you know how to pick a lock?” Root asks you, when you’re standing in front of the door to the principal’s office.

“Yeah.” Your dad showed you. “But I don’t have anything to pick it with.”

“Oh.” Root looks disappointed. “I guess we can just use the key.” She produces this key nonchalantly from her pocket, inserts it into the lock, and without ceremony opens the door. She looks at you out of the corner of her eye, presumably to see whether you’re impressed with her feats. And yeah, you are, a little bit.

The inside of the office is familiar to you, in fact, you’re something of a regular customer. It’s a small room, a desk opposite the door with a window behind it, and all the walls lined with filing cabinets. Every surface is covered with little knick-knacks, odds and ends that build up when someone isn’t willing to part with them. Root closes the door behind her.

“So.” You say. “What do we do now?” You hadn’t asked why she wanted to break into the office. You hadn’t cared. But now it seems kind of silly to sneak in without any plan of action. 

Root sits down on the ground, rolls her left pant leg up, and removes a stack of papers that she had curled around her leg and stuffed into her sock. “Just going to return something I borrowed.” You suppose that confirms your suspicions about Root’s previous excursions. She opens one of the filing cabinets, and slips the stack of papers in. 

“So why am I here?” You ask her bluntly.

“What do you mean?”

“Obviously you can get in here yourself, why do you need a tag-along?”

She looks at you like this is the silliest question she’s ever been asked. “I thought you’d have fun.” She tilts her head. “You had fun, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.” You shrug. Your response, unenthusiastic though it is, makes Root smile. She opens the door, and gestures for you to go through. “Ladies first.” She says, winking at you. You roll your eyes, and exit the office.

And walk right into a teacher. He’s a tall, lanky, nervous looking guy, with large glasses perched on the edge of his nose. 

“Um,” He says, peering at you, flustered. “What were you doing in there, Miss Shaw?” 

Apparently he knows who you are. Do you know him? Did he teach one of your classes? No bells are going off in your mind, though that may just be because most of your thoughts are focused on the punishment the school (and your mom) will be directing towards you.

“Mr. Elman! I’m sorry, it’s all my fault.” Root appears behind the teacher (who you still don’t recognize), and he turns to her inquisitively. She continues, “I just started here last week, and I’m still having a hard time finding everything. I have ADD and it makes it hard for me to keep track of this stuff, so Sameen has been helping show me around. I didn’t realize this was an office, and I went in before Sameen could tell me not to. I’m really sorry.” Her face is a perfect picture of contrition.

You barely manage to hold in a snort. There’s no way anyone would believe that. Surely he’s going to -

“Ah, I see.” He says, turning back to you, his tone mollified. “Well, Miss Shaw, I’m very impressed with you. It seems Miss Groves is a good influence on you.” 

Root grins smugly at you from behind his back. You manage to force a perfunctory smile at Mr. Elman, and, Root alongside, you walk back to class like the diligent students you’re pretending to be. 

“I don’t think ADD actually works that way.” You mutter to her as you walk.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that.” She says, swinging her arms so that her hand keeps touching yours. “I helped him with his computer last week, so now I’m his favorite student. Maybe you should try being a little more gregarious, Sameen.”

She says it teasingly, but it, along with her continued use of your name, pisses you off. You snatch your hand back and cross your arms. You know everyone wants you to somehow start being a normal person, and to make friends and interact like everyone else, so they don’t have to see you and feel uncomfortable or scared of you because of something you can’t control, you know you’re fucked up, and that people wish you would at least pretend to be normal, but that’s not who you are, and it’s never going to be, so everyone should just back the hell off and leave you alone.

***

Shaw goes into the bathroom and locks herself in a stall. You keep knocking on the door, but she won’t talk to you. You tried to apologize, but it didn’t make a difference. You want to cry. Everything was perfect, and you had to go and ruin it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

***

You go to your last class of the day. Root’s there too; she eventually left the bathroom when you kept ignoring her. The edges of her eyes are red, and she sends mournful looks at you as you walk to your seat. You sit down, not meeting her eyes. You’re not angry anymore, and really, you know Root wasn’t trying to upset you. Honestly, though, this is why you’re better off not trying to make friends. They don’t know how to handle you, and you’re definitely not equipped to handle them. Everyone’s better off if you just keep to yourself.

When class is over, Root dashes out of the room even quicker than you do. This brief friendship seems destined to end in tears, like all your other fleeting attempts in the past. You have to admit though, Root’s not what you thought she was at first. She’s interesting, and exciting, even though she’s annoying. You really hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but it was inevitably going to happen sooner or later, so it’s probably better that it happened sooner. You shove your things in your backpack and heft it over one shoulder, walking out into the hall. 

You move with the current of bodies and get swept out of the building, where nature greets you with a stiff breeze. It looks like rain, too; you see dark clouds forming overhead when you glance up. You hadn’t thought to bring your umbrella, so you’d better hurry home if you don’t want to get rained on, which you don’t. As you take the steps leading away from the school two at a time, you see Root, next to a tall woman dressed in a business suit, who you assume is her mother. 

“Samantha, hurry up, we have to go.” The woman’s voice is cutting, and something about it makes you angry. Root mumbles some reply that you can’t quite make out. Root’s mother turns toward the parking lot, Root trudging after her. She looks behind her, and catches your eye. 

You once saw a group of older boys tormenting this mangy stray dog, throwing things at it and kicking it. Root’s face reminds you of that dog, eyes darting around for a way to escape, and it causes the same hot fury to build in your stomach. Knowing you’re almost certainly going to regret it later, but stubbornly ignoring that knowledge, you stalk over to Root, and seize her upper arm, stopping her from moving. Her mom apparently notices that Root’s not following her, and turns around.

“And who is this, Samantha?” Her tone makes you angry. Her stupid face makes you angry. The fact that she didn’t even address you makes you angry.

“I’m Root’s friend.” You say, struggling to keep your voice even. “She’s coming over to my house today.” Root’s head whips around to look at you, surprise all over her features.

“Samantha, are you still going on with this ‘Root’ nonsense?” 

Root stares at her feet and doesn’t respond.

“Fine,” Root’s mother says, waving her hand dismissively. “It would have been nice to be told about this beforehand, sweetheart. Are you going to be spending the night?”

Root’s head shoots up and she blurts, “Yes!” before you have a chance to say anything. She’s grinning widely, and practically bouncing with giddiness. Her mother leaves with just a “Call me if you need me,” and Root turns to you and wraps you in a hug. She’s taller than you, so this mostly ends with your face smashed against her neck, which isn’t very comfortable, but fortunately she lets you go, and you step back a bit to reestablish the integrity of your personal space. You look at her, and she looks back at you, and you feel like you should probably say something, but you don’t know what, so you turn around and start walking, and she follows right beside you.

It’s about two minutes later that rain starts to fall. You groan. If you hadn’t stopped for Root, you’d be home by now, instead of out here getting rained on. Root stops, and you turn around in frustration to ask why, but then you see her fumbling with her backpack before pulling out an umbrella. She unfolds it, and then holds out toward you. “We can share, if you want.” She says, smiling coyly. You roll your eyes and join her under the umbrella. You walk home shoulder-to-shoulder, since every time you move away, Root moves closer to you.

You have no idea how you’re going to explain this to your mom when she gets back from work.

***

“I can help you, if you want. I’m good at math.”

Root’s sitting cross-legged on your bed, looking over at you where you’re working at your desk. You hadn’t really known what to do with her once you got back to your house, so you brought her up to your room, where she started entertaining herself by looking at/touching everything you own. Your usual schedule is to do homework before dinner, and you didn’t really see any reason to break from that, so you got out your paper and pencils, while Root investigated every corner of your room, swinging her arms and humming to herself. You don’t look up from your paper. “I don’t need help.”

Root exhales loudly, and you hear her flop onto the bed. Then in a second she’s up again, then she’s sitting on the edge of your desk. “Have you ever played Grand Theft Auto?”

“No.” Your mom has maintained a policy of avoiding overly violent video games, presumably because she’s worried that they’ll turn you into a serial killer. This always seemed kind of silly to you; you’re already a sociopath, what harm could the games do? But your well-reasoned arguments have yet to penetrate your mom’s bulwark of motherly concern.

“Well…” Root says slowly, swinging her legs back and forth. “I have it on my computer. I mean, if you want to play…” She trails off.

***

Your homework lies abandoned on your desk. You sit on the bed, Root’s laptop on your lap as you wreak havoc on the virtual city, while Root sits behind you investigating the contents of your iPod, occasionally watching you over your shoulder.

***

“Sameen, honey, it’s time for dinner!”

The shout wafts up to your room from downstairs. Crap, you think, rolling off the bed. You forgot to come up with a good reason for Root’s presence. You and she have listening to music on YouTube and making jokes at the expense of some of your less admirable classmates, and somehow three hours passed without you noticing. You briefly consider just having her hide in your room, but if her mom calls (unlikely as that is) to check on her, the situation could become very uncomfortable. Besides, your mom will probably be thrilled that you brought home a friend.

There’s that, too. You don’t want to see the look on Root’s face when you describe her as a ‘friend’ for a second time. Like earlier today, in the parking lot, when she looked at you like you were some dashing prince, rescuing her from her tower. It’s the kind of look that carries an expectation that you’re all too familiar with. She’ll expect you, like everyone else does, to be able to overcome your lack of feeling to be her friend, and then when you can’t, she’ll blame you for not living up to what she had built you up to be in her head. 

But you guess there’s no getting around it. You can hardly introduce her as ‘this person who I broke into the principal’s office with’ or ‘the only person I almost kind of like.’

You had definitely better not say that second one.

Root’s sitting up on the bed, head tilted quizzically, waiting for a cue from you. 

“Come on.” You say, opening the door and ushering her into the hall.

“Sameen, I made spaghetti, and there are meatballs if you…” Your mom trails off as she turns around, plate in hand, to see you and Root standing behind her. She frowns, like she’s trying to make sense of the situation, but is coming up empty.

“Mom, this is Root,” You say, after a few moments of awkward silence. “She’s sleeping over.”

Your voice seems to jolt her out of her out of her stupor, and she smiles brightly at both you and Root. “Oh, of course. Go ahead and sit down, I’ll make you a plate.” She puts her plate on the table, and turns around to go back over to the stove, wiping her eyes.

Root pulls out a chair, and grins at you, gesturing for you to sit down. You slip into a different seat, raising an eyebrow at her. She pouts, but sits down, and smiles as your mom hands her a plate of spaghetti. 

“So, Root,” Your mom says, handing you a plate as well. “Where does that name come from?”

“I made it up.” Root says, twirling noodles around her fork, looking inexplicably proud of herself. Whether about the noodles or the name, you’re not sure. She looks at you out of the corner of her eye. “Sameen said it wasn’t a name.”

She’s trying to get a reaction out of you, but what exactly, you’re not quite sure, so you just say, “Well, it’s not,” and she smiles at you. 

Your mom, clearly unable to make heads or tails of this interaction, tries to reel the conversation back to familiar territory. “How did you two meet?”

“Sameen’s been helping show me around the school.” That’s not really an answer to the question she was asked, but your mom seems satisfied.

“Oh? Are you new to the area?”

“Yep. We just moved here a few weeks ago. Sameen’s my first friend.” She looks over at you and smiles, and you wonder if she means you’re her first friend here, or her first ever. Your mom is smiling at you too, and you duck your head down towards your plate to escape the onslaught of affection being aimed at you.

***

Shadi (that’s Shaw’s mom’s name, she told you) is so nice. Super super nice. She smiles at you, and talks to you like you’re a real person, not a live-in nuisance. And she told you she’s happy that Shaw has a friend like you. She’s also very impressed when you take both your dishes and Shaw’s and wash them, which you do because that’s what a gentlewoman does for her lady friend. You think the words ‘lady friend’ to yourself and giggle. You think Shaw is probably impressed with your gentlewomanliness as well. Sure, she doesn’t show it, but you can tell. Your moves are irresistible. 

You lose focus and drop a fork on the floor.

***

At your mom’s suggestion, the night ends with a movie. Root gets to pick, and you brace yourself for some sappy romance, but she picks The One. OK, there’s a bit of romance crammed in there, but there’s also an hour of martial arts and Jet Li fighting himself. And there’s a dog.

You and Root both sit on the couch, your mom opting for the rocking chair near the doorway. Root immediately declares that she’s cold, and grabs a blanket off the back of the couch, and throws it over both you. She spends the rest of the movie slowly scooting closer to you, and trying to grab your hand under the blanket. You pull your hand away several times, but eventually you give up, since obviously Root isn’t going to, and so hand in hand, you watch Jet Li’s quest to become the most powerful version of himself.

“So, where is Root going to sleep?” Your mom asks, when the movie’s over, which makes you realize that you forgot to consider this dilemma. You’re certain she’d jump on any opportunity to sleep in your bed, so you pointedly don’t offer. 

“She can use my sleeping bag,” You offer. “And sleep on the floor in my room.”

Root is agreeable to this idea, and all is well until you and Root both realize that she didn’t bring any pajamas, or any clothes to wear to school tomorrow. You suddenly feel very stupid, but in your defense, you’ve never had a sleepover before.

“I’m sure Sameen has some pajamas and clothes you can borrow, honey.” Your mom says, demonstrating her nearly superhuman power to smooth over any situation. Root looks entirely too excited about the prospect of borrowing your clothes, but you can’t really complain, considering it’s your fault for inviting her over in the first place. Why did you do that, again? But there’s no point lamenting past decisions now. In short order, Root is equipped with a sleeping bag, several pillows, a pair of pajamas, and a set of clothes for school.

***

“Have you ever been in love?”

Root’s laying on the floor right beside your bed, in the sleeping bag, an old one you used when you went camping with your dad. You’re on the bed, trying to ignore Root. She has apparently interpreted the sleepover as an invitation to ask you a bunch of prying personal questions.

“Sameen?” She says when you don’t respond.

“No.” You say shortly.

“Have you ever kissed anyone?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

You can’t see her face, but you’re pretty that if you could, she’d be winking at you; her tone is fairly blatantly an invitation. And, OK, you won’t deny that the idea is somewhat tempting. She is very pretty. You can tell that much; you’re a sociopath, but you’re not blind. You can’t imagine any way it would end well, though. 

Root accepts your silence for so long, you almost think she’s gone to sleep. Then you hear her voice, quieter now, “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings earlier.”

“I don’t have feelings.” You expect some kind of rebuttal from her, but again, she stays quiet for a while. Until, eventually,

“Why did you invite me over?”

“I didn’t like the way she was treating you.” 

“Why does that matter, if you don’t have feelings?”

You start to get pissed off again. “You can understand right and wrong without having emotions. I don’t need to have feelings to know that it’s unfair for her to treat you like that.” You’re not sure if you’re mad at Root, or mad on her behalf. “It’s not like other people chose to be all touchy-feely and caring and stuff, but they still act like they’re better than me and that the way I was born means there’s something wrong with me. But I’m stronger because I don’t feel stuff. I’ll be a better doctor, or whatever, because the emotion crap won’t slow me down. I don’t want to be like them, and I’m not gonna pretend that I do.”

“I know.” Root says, voice soft. “That’s what I like about you.”

You have no idea how to respond to that, so you don’t. You don’t even know where that whole rant came from; you’ve never said any of that to anyone before. Maybe that’s what Root was trying to get out of you this whole time. You have to admit, she’s not like anyone else you’ve ever met. Other people make you angry, but she gets under your skin almost like she belongs there.

Eventually Root says, “I figured out why people don’t like me.”

“Why?”

“They don’t understand me. You know why?”

“…Why?”

“Because,” she says, “I’m a complex Root.”

You snort, and throw a pillow at her.

***

You woke up early so you could watch Shaw sleep. That’s not weird, right? OK, maybe it’s kind of weird. But you’re so excited you can’t help it. She’s your friend now, she said so. That’s all you’ve thought about since she said it; you thought about it all last night before you went to sleep, and you even dreamed - 

Well actually, you think you’re going to keep exactly what you dreamed to yourself. 

But anyway, you’re sitting beside the bed on your knees, elbows on the mattress, head resting on your hands. Her hair is all messy, sticking up in odd places, and it’s adorable. You want to touch it. Maybe you will. She is asleep, after all, so it won’t bother her. You reach out and stroke it a bit, and it’s just as amazing as you imagined. Definitely not weird or anything. Friends do this all the time, you’re sure. You better stop, though, in case she wakes up. 

Stop. 

Root, you haven’t stopped. Stop.

You manage to pull your hand back, already lamenting the loss of Shaw’s pretty hair. She’s pretty when she’s asleep. Well, she’s pretty always, but this pretty is a bit different from her awake pretty. You say the word ‘pretty’ in your head a bunch of times and it sounds weird. Pretty pretty pretty. 

Shaw is looking at you. How long were you spaced out? Not too long you think; she looks sleepy, so probably she just woke up. One of her eyes is open, the other only made it about halfway. 

“Root,” she groans, rubbing her eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“…What?”

“Can I have your number?” You already have her number, obviously. But it seems polite to ask.

Shaw stares at you for a second, then rolls her eyes. Well, she rolls one eye. You’re not sure what the half-open eye is doing. “Fine. Gimme your phone.”

You hand it to her, and she punches her number into your contacts list. She hands it back, then rolls over and buries her face in a pillow. Her muffled voice says, “Now let me go back to sleep.”

You move away, and leave Shaw to her rest. You’re already wide awake, though, so you go to the bathroom and change into the clothes you borrowed from Shaw. They’re a little too short for you, but you don’t care. You are never, ever going to take them off. 

You look at the new contact on your phone, and take a moment to reflect on how cute it is that she listed herself as ‘ **Shaw** ’ instead of ‘ **Sameen.** ’ Also, in her sleep-addled state, she apparently failed to notice the fact that her number was already listed, under the heading ‘ **Sweetie** ,’ which is too bad, you wanted to see her reaction. Oh well. You go back to the bedroom, take Shaw’s phone off the bedside table, and begin inputting your contact information, along with some other important upgrades and additions.

***

You and Root walk to school together. She sits behind you in all your classes, and you sit together at lunch. She gives you most of her food, but constantly picks bits of things off your tray, probably just to prove she can. Predictably, your phone receives a constant stream of texts from her, even when she’s sitting next to you, and even when you’re almost completely sure that she can’t possibly be holding her phone. When school lets out, and you say goodbye, and watch her drive away with her mom, you come to a strange realization. You like Root. 

You like steak. You like doing well in school. You like fighting and sports and anything that gets your blood pumping. You… like Root. 

That night, she calls you, and you talk for an hour or so. Well, she does the majority of the talking, occasionally you make a comment; mostly you just listen.

***

It becomes a pattern. Root sits with you at lunch. A few days a week, she comes over to your house, and you play games and watch movies, and Root exults in the attention your mom showers on her. On the nights she doesn’t sleep over, she calls you and tells you about anything that’s on her mind.

She’s still annoying. But she’s annoying like a headache. You can’t separate yourself from your head to get rid of the headache, any more than you can separate yourself from Root now. You don’t really understand how it happened, but somehow, through some unusual, slightly disturbing symbiotic relationship, you’ve become inseparable. The most unusual thing is that you don’t even mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title:  
> While ShawIsFriend == False:  
> BefriendShaw()
> 
> Python is awesome. I suck at coding, but damn it is fun.


	2. Friendship Learning Curve

You watch a video explaining the procedure for operating on gunshot victims, partly for your report you’re supposed to be writing, and partly because it’s fascinating. It’s amazing the amount of knowledge and skill someone needs to be a doctor, which is exactly why you want to be one. Not only that, but you have to be quick and decisive, since any hesitation could cost someone’s life. This is why you’d be a good doctor, you think. Lots of doctors have problems with nerves, but you would be completely cool the whole time. You have a recurring fantasy where you, a lowly medical student, intervene in a crisis where everyone else is panicking, and singlehandedly save everyone’s bacon. 

You wonder what Root wants to be. You could ask her, but you’re worried about the kind of response you would get if you asked her what fantasies she had. She’s coming over tomorrow night, maybe you’ll find a way to safely broach the topic then.

Speaking of Root.

Your phone buzzes, and you pick it up, figuring she has realized that she hasn’t texted you in ten minutes and is aiming to correct this oversight.

…Huh. There’s this… ghost thing on your phone. You don’t know what it is. You click on it, and see - oh. Snapchat. You never bothered to download it before. Who would you send stuff to? But somehow it made its way onto your phone, unbidden. Or it was put there by someone with no concept of personal boundaries. Your suspicions are confirmed when you see that you have a message from your only contact, root314159. You sigh, and click on it. You are greeted by Root, laying on what you presume to be her bed, grinning up at you, with the caption:

Hi!!!

followed by a number of heart emojis. You’re not sure how to respond, so you don’t, but a few minutes later your phone buzzes again. Root’s face greets you once more, except this time she’s got an overly dramatic pout, her bottom lip stuck out.

You’re supposed to send something back.

You message her:

Hi.

And she quickly responds.

I meant you’re supposed to send a picture. :P

What the hell kind of picture are you supposed to send? And why? She already knows what you look like. This is why you never make friends, none of the expected social niceties make any sense. You hold your phone up dubiously, and try to force a smile.

It looks weird. How do other people do this so easily? You sigh, let the smile drop, and just take a picture stone-faced. Root should have known what she was getting into when she decided to force you to be her friend. You quickly add the caption:

Here.

and send it.

Root responds with another crapload of heart emojis.

***

The next morning, Root is waiting for you by the entrance to the school, like she usually is, so you can walk to your first class together. At lunch, she gives you her chicken and you give her your pile of brownies.

“You look gorgeous.” Root says, staring at you. She’s sitting right next to you, so her face is only a few inches away from yours. You don’t respond. She has a tendency to say things like this from time to time, and even though you kind of like it (not that the extra care you’ve been putting into your appearance lately has anything to do with that), you’re never sure what to say. 

Maybe she’s expecting you to say the same thing back to her, you suddenly think. It wouldn’t be a lie; she’s wearing a red top and a black skirt along with black boots today, and she really does look lovely. But how are you supposed to tell her that? ‘Hey, I like your shirt’? Kind of bland. ‘Hey, you look good today’? Like she doesn’t look good on other days? ‘Hey, I want to make out with you’?

Wow, what the hell. You need to derail this train of thought and pillage it before it delivers its embarrassing cargo to the station. As appealing as Root can be at times, you know that relationships are at the top of the list of Things You Can’t Do.

Anyway you end up not saying anything to her, and she moves on and talks about something else, probably not even aware of your internal dilemma.

***

You stow a few things in your locker, while Root leans against hers beside you, legs crossed. Her locker wasn’t always next to yours, but then suddenly it was. You did not inquire about the series of events that led to this occurrence.

“So, you doing anything tomorrow?” Root asks, fake-casually. 

“No.” You say. “Why?”

“So…” Root says, dragging out the word. “I thought you might like to go see a movie with me?”

“What, and make people think we’re dating?” You snort. “No thanks.”

She doesn’t respond, so you look over at her. You immediately realize you’ve done something wrong. Her expression is brittle, her eyes shining with tears. Oh shit. Inside your head, your mom reprimands you for your language.

“Uh,” is all you have time to say before she turns around and walks away from you, her boots clacking against the hard floor. You think about going after her. You weren’t trying to hurt her feelings; how were you supposed to know this was the one time she wasn’t going to be amused by your sarcastic brush-offs to her flirting?

As you think about it, you start to get mad. She was the one who started this stupid friendship, she was the one who said she liked how blunt you were. You’re not wired for emotional stuff, she knows that. You don’t get mad at a penguin because it can’t fly, it’s just not made that way. If Root wants to get upset with you, then fine. That’s her stupid problem. You throw the rest of your stupid books in your stupid backpack and walk out of the building, glaring at anyone who looks at you.

***

“Is Root not sleeping over tonight?” Your mom asks, very delicately.

“No.” 

“… Did you have a fight?”

“No.”

“Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.”

***

By bedtime, you’ve realized that Root had wormed her way into basically every part of your life, and that you’re incredibly bored without her. You keep seeing the look of hurt on her face, and getting angry at yourself for putting it there. You need to make it up to her somehow. Unfortunately, a life of eschewing all social interaction has not equipped you with an abundance of experience in this kind of situation. 

So you do what you always do when you’re faced with a problem you don’t know how to solve.

You go to Google and type in ‘what to do when a girl is mad at you’ and predictably get a bunch of links to people whining about their terrible romances, and other people giving them awful sappy advice. But you’ve clearly established that you have no clue what you’re doing, so maybe you have no business criticizing other people’s advice.

You take a deep breath, and resolve to follow the recommendation of the least-stupid person.

***

You arrive at school the next day, part of your apology in your hands. You walk to the place you always meet Root, poised to say…

Well, something. You’re hoping the words will come to you when you need them.

…Not that you’ll need them soon, apparently, since Root isn’t here. Surely you didn’t upset her so much that she doesn’t want to see you at all. 

But ten minutes later, just seconds before class starts, she still isn’t here. You stow a half-apology hastily into your backpack as you rush inside and down the hall. At least you’ll have time to work on the other half.

***

You sit on a swing, rocking slowly back and forth. You just couldn’t face school today, so you let your mom drop you off in front of the building, and then promptly left, walking away from the school, walking until you got to this little park. It’s one of your favorite things you’ve found in this town. You think about your most favorite thing and want to cry again. Stop. Don’t think about it. The park is kind of run-down, the swings creak, and half of the monkey bars are missing, and one of the big slides is tipped completely over. No one else comes here, but you like it. It has charm. Except today. Today it is just empty and sad and lonely, like you.

You start thinking about Shaw again. You were sure she was going to say yes. Why didn’t she say yes? You worked for ages on your outfit, but maybe you weren’t pretty enough? She didn’t even notice your skirt. Or your boots! The girl at the store told you they would definitely draw the attention of the guy you were interested in. Maybe you should have said you were trying to woo a girl? You hadn’t even looked for a lesbian footwear section. You just assumed they were all the same! Are girls attracted to different boots? You imagine Shaw wearing them, and decide that the boots aren’t the problem. So what then? You were sure that she liked you.

Your phone buzzes. What could that be? Not a notification, you haven’t even had the heart to update your Tumblr page today. Much less your Twitter. Someone trying to contact you? But who? Your mom? Not likely. Honestly you’re just trying to delay checking it. Until you check it, according to Schrödinger, it could still be Shaw. Once you look, it either is or isn’t. You aren’t entirely prepared to make your reality concrete yet. Maybe you can just wait a second longer.

No you can’t. Grab the phone. Unlock it. Look at messages.

** SENT FROM Shaw AT 4:30 **

** Hey where are you **

!!!!!!

It _is_ her! 

In your excitement, you drop your phone. Then you pick it up, and your hands are too sweaty to type. You hastily dry them off on your pants, and type a response.

** SENT FROM Root AT 4:35 **

** At the park. **

You told her once that you liked to spend time here. 

Not that you’re testing to see if she was paying attention, or anything.

About ten minutes later, Shaw arrives on her bike, which she wheels into the enclosure and leans up against the frame of the swing set. From somewhere behind her back, she produces a slightly crumpled-looking bouquet of flowers, which she awkwardly holds out towards you.

“Here.”

***

You sit down on the swing next to Root, who holds the flowers up to her face and breathes in. She looks like she’s happy with them, so maybe the strangers on the internet really knew what they were talking about.

“Sorry they’re all smashed.” You say, looking at your feet. “I was going to give them to you this morning, but you weren’t there, so I put them in my backpack.”

“They’re wonderful.” Root says, and you risk a look up at her. She’s beaming at you.

“So, uh,” You start. “I’m sorry. For what I said.”

“It’s OK.”

“No,” You say, frustrated, “It’s not. Look, I’m…” You search for the words. “I’m not good at… at this. But I’m trying. I’m trying to be a good friend.”

“You’re a great friend, Sameen. I’ve never had a friend like you before.”

“OK. Good.”

The park is silent for a few minutes, except for the wind, and cars driving by. Root swings slowly back and forth, feet scraping the ground. Then you say, “It’s just not my thing. Dating, I mean. It’s not you. If I were going to date anyone, I’d date you.”

She grabs your hand and squeezes it. “OK.” Her voice is nearly a whisper.

You meet her gaze, then awkwardly look away. “So,” you say, to bypass the uncomfortable (for you, at least) silence, “I told the teachers that you were sick. But I don’t know how to do that hacker-y stuff so if they check you might get in trouble with your mom. Sorry.”

“Like she would care.” Root mumbles, surly all of a sudden. 

You don’t really know how to approach this… whatever it is with Root’s mother. “Do you want to stay over tonight?” You offer.

“No, thanks,” Root says, dejectedly. “I have to get back to school now, anyway. She’s picking me up later tonight ‘cause I told her I was working on a project.”

“You want a lift?” You ask. “You can ride on my handlebars.”

Root thinks about this, and slowly brightens. “Oh, I’ll ride your handlebars, Sameen.” She wiggles her eyebrows at you.

You can’t help laughing. You get on the bike, and Root precariously balances herself on the handlebars. Neither of you have a helmet, in spite of numerous warnings from your mother about potential head-splitting injuries. 

You tip over no fewer than three times en route to the school, and by the time you arrive, both of you are covered in dirt and bruises, as well as bleeding in several places. But neither one of you cares.

***

For the second day in a row, Root is not at your regular meeting place right outside the school. You stand by the doors for a few minutes, frustrated, when you hear Root’s voice from inside the building. 

“Put that down!” She sounds aggravated, and without thinking about it you dash down the hall after her voice, and find the source of the commotion. The floor is covered with paper, binders and notebooks. Root’s locker is hanging open, and she’s on her knees, scrambling to pick up her belongings. There are two boys and a girl standing over her. The girl you know by reputation; Martine, a self-obsessed girl who regularly commands a group of sycophants. The boys you don’t know by name, but you recognize them as some of the more aggressive tormentors of any students unfortunate enough to draw their attention. Martine’s leaning against the wall of lockers, holding one of Root’s notebooks, casually ripping out pages. “I heard you broke up with your little girlfriend, _Samantha_.” Her voice is dripping with condescension. “Too bad.”

One of the boys laughs. “Guess she wasn’t interested in a dyke like you after all.”

Your blood boils. You’ve never been more furious in your life, and you run at the bigger of the two boys. His back is to you, and he’s caught off balance as you leap onto him, and he topples over, both of you crashing to the floor. You react first, rolling on top of him. You get one punch to his face in before the other boy is behind you, pulling you off. He’s bigger than you, and stronger, but you’re faster, and smarter, and you don’t care if you get hurt. You slam your head backwards, making contact with his face, and he lets you go, clutching his nose. You knee him in the groin, and slam your elbow down on his back when he keels over. He falls on the floor, moaning. The other boy is up again.

Adrenaline races through you. You’ve never felt this alive; you’re invincible. The boy throws a punch at you. You duck, but his fist makes contact with the side of your face. You don’t even feel it, and before he can react, you leap on his back and pull him back to the ground, and introduce his gut to your knee. 

You stand up, and wipe blood off of your face. You don’t know whose it is. Root is still on the ground, Martine standing by her, both apparently enthralled by the spectacle before them. You grin at Martine. She should have known better. “We didn’t break up.” You say, and you put your head down, run at her and grab her in a football tackle that would have made your dad proud. She groans as you crush her against the lockers, and she goes down too. You raise your fist, planning to mess up her face so badly that she’ll never make that stupid little smirk again, but suddenly someone’s holding your arm, holding you back. You whirl, ready to attack, until you see Root. You calm down enough to take in your surroundings, and you realize there are adult voices nearing you.

And suddenly you’re remembering a moment last year ago, what your mom called ‘the incident,’ where two boys had pulled your hair, and you’d retaliated, breaking one’s nose, slamming the other into a locker so hard that you knocked him out. You had to be pulled off them by several teachers, and your mom was called in, and you were told that this was your last straw, if you acted out like this again, you’d be expelled. Your mom had been angry, angrier than you’d ever seen her. She told you that when you let yourself get out of control, you prove everyone else right about you. She said you had to be better than they were.

And then you’re in the present again, and you realize that this is probably the last day you’re going to go to school here, and that you’ve let your mom down again, and kind of vaguely, you notice that your hand is bleeding. A teacher comes around the corner, yelling something you can’t understand. In a second, Root goes from completely calm to sobbing uncontrollably, leaning on you for support.

“What’s happening here?!” The teacher demands, looking from the two boys, bloody-faced, looking shaky but standing, to Martine, sitting with her back against the lockers, looking dazed, to you, hands bloody, to Root, a mess of tears and mussed hair.

“They… they tried… they were…” she chokes out, gesturing vaguely at her papers and notebooks all over the floor, and then at you. “Sameen…” then she dissolves into sobs again. 

The teacher looks completely out of his element. “Um, everyone to the principal’s office. She’ll sort this out.” He turns to help Martine stand, and while he’s distracted, Root looks at you and winks, then resumes crying.

***

You’re taken to the principal’s office, then to the nurse’s office so your hand and face can be examined, then back to the principal’s office again. Root insists on staying with you the whole time, and sometime during the process your mom shows up, so you suppose the school must have called her to say that you just used up your last strike.

The principal asks you a few questions, getting your version of events. The other kids are questioned as well, but Root is the star witness, tearfully relating how the other kids had mocked her for being gay, and had called her names and trashed her locker, and how she was scared that they were going to hurt her until you stepped in and protected her. Her story casts you as some sort of morally infallible hero, which is laughable, but she’s so convincing that even you almost start to believe it. Fortunately for your academic career, Root’s crocodile tears seem to work on the principal as well, and Mr. Elman vouches for Root as an honest, hardworking and trustworthy student. The two boys are known as troublemakers, so that part of your story holds up well. Martine, as far as you know, has evaded any attention from the administration thus far, but for some reason, they seem inclined to believe that she was an instigator as well.

The principal tells you, with a very serious expression on her face, that in the future you should find an adult rather than taking matters into your own hands. By this point it’s almost noon, and the principal seems eager to wrap the whole thing up. You and Root are told to attend your remaining classes for the day, as are the two boys. Martine, again for reasons you don’t understand, is suspended. You hear her indignant cry as you leave the room. “But I didn’t do anything!”

“Root, honey,” Your mom says as the three of you walk down the hall. “Did your mother not come down?”

“They called her.” Root says, shrugging. “I guess she was busy.”

“Hmm.” Your mom has her mom-frown on, usually indicative of a problem she’s trying to work through. “Are you staying over tonight?”

“Yes, please.” Root says.

“Good. You can go on ahead, I just want to talk to Sameen for a minute.”

Root looks at you, and you nod, so she carries on. You stop, and turn to your mom. 

“Sameen,” She starts. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t just do whatever feels good. You can’t start fights just because you enjoy it.”

“I know.” You mutter. “I’m sorry I let you down.”

“Sameen, sweetheart, you didn’t let me down.” She puts a hand on your shoulder. “I’m very proud of you for protecting your friend. I just need you to be careful. I know it’s not fair that you have to try harder than anyone else. They,” she casts an acidic glance in the direction of the school therapist’s office. “Have already made up their minds about you, but you will prove them all wrong. I know you will.”

This isn’t what you were expecting. She wraps her arms around you and holds you tightly. “You remind me so much of your father. I know he’s proud of you, too.” 

You rub at the edges of your eyes. Because they’re itchy. There aren’t any tears there. 

***

You and Root walk back to your house together. Neither of you say anything. You think back to when Root first tried to follow you home, and how furious her presence made you. Now you can’t imagine her not being there. Even if she still makes you furious occasionally.

Root dashes up the stairs to your room, and when you catch up, she’s sitting on the floor opposite your bed, back against the wall.

“So,” You say, bending down and sitting next to her, with a respectable amount of space between you. “That was some impressive bullshitting you did today.”

“Sameen, language.” She says, with a mock-serious expression. “And it was true. I _am_ gay.”

“Yeah.” You snort. “No kidding. That wasn’t the part I was talking about.”

“Which part, then?” She asks, eyes wide, faking innocence.

“The part about me being a hero.”

She smiles fondly at you. “You’re _my_ hero, Sameen.”

You’re honestly not sure whether she’s serious or not, so you just drop it.

Root’s phone buzzes. She takes out, looks at it, and then harshly shoves it back in her pocket.

“What was that about?” You ask, even though you’re pretty sure you already know.

“My mom.” Root replies, her light tone at odds with her taut motions. “She said she doesn’t appreciate being bothered at work with my school problems.”

“OK, Root, I gotta ask. What the hell is up with your mom?” 

Root doesn’t meet your eyes, she just shrugs and makes an ‘I don’t know’ sound.

“Root.” Your tone makes her look up. 

She lets out a long breath and looks up at the ceiling. “She…. “ Root stops, looking for words. “I think she thinks I’m like, a chore, or something. Not a person.”

“Root…”

“She’s not mean to me, or anything. I just don’t think she likes me very much.” She’s trying to sound casual, but her voice shakes on the last word.

“What about your dad?”

“He left. A while ago.” Her voice is very small. “Guess he didn’t like me either.”

You pat her on the back, because you’ve seen people do that when they’re being comforting, but the gesture seems kind of meaningless. You wish you could fight off neglect like you can bullies. It pisses you off that people who can love would choose not to love Root. She scoots closer to you and snuggles against your side, takes your hand, and slides your arm around her shoulders.

“I like being your friend.” You tell her.

She squeezes your hand, and you sit in companionable silence for a while. You almost drift off to sleep, when Root’s quiet voice brings you back. “What about your dad?”

You stiffen. This isn’t something you talk about. 

Root feels your reaction. “You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

“No,” you say, “No, it’s fine. I guess I owe it to you anyway.” A moment’s hesitation, and then, “He died about 5 years ago. Car crash. I was there too. That’s when everyone else figured out that there was - figured out that I was different.”

“How?”

“I didn’t cry. Or feel upset. Or feel anything. Which they figured meant I was just incapable of caring about anyone, even my parents.” Your tone is bitter, all the more so because they were right. 

There’s another long silence. Root’s still holding your hand, gently running her fingers across yours. She breaks the silence again. “It’s OK that you didn’t cry.”

“What?”

“About your dad. It doesn’t mean that you didn’t care about him.”

“Tell that to the school therapist.” You scoff.

She looks at you quizzically. You shouldn’t have said anything. You don’t want to talk about this. But you can sense she’s not going to let you brush it off, so reluctantly you say, “They made me take the PCL-R after that. I was really proud at first, because I thought it was good that I scored so high.” You chuckle derisively. “But all it meant was they put a note in my file to keep an eye on me, in case I tried to hurt someone.”

“I know.”

“Wait, what?”

“I read your file.”

You suddenly think back to Root in the principal’s office, however many weeks ago, pulling a stack of papers from her pant leg. It had never even occurred to you to wonder what she had taken in the first place. You pull away from her so you can look her in the eye. “So why the hell did you ask me about all that, if you already knew?”

Root looks slightly disgruntled after separating from you. She smooths down a bit of hair that had become rumpled and says, “I thought it would be good for you to talk about it. And…” She takes a breath. “And I wanted to tell you that it’s OK that you feel things differently. It doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you.”

You should probably be angry at her for manipulating you, but for some reason you’re not. Maybe you’re just too baffled by the fact that your friend is kind of person who, after reading a file that describes a person as sociopathic, incapable of human connection and potentially dangerous, immediately decides to befriend her. Not for the first time, you think that Root may be insane. Also not for the first time, you think that you don’t care. She’s your friend.

“Anyway,” You say, leaning back against the wall. “All that stuff means I’ll never be a doctor. According to them, anyway. I have to ‘be realistic about my future,’ apparently.” 

“You don’t believe that, do you?” Root sounds angry. You’ve never seen her angry before.

“They can kiss my ass.” You say cuttingly, but kind of quietly, in case your mom is listening. 

“Good.” Root’s expression is dark.

“So, I heard that Martine was suspended for making threats to blow up the school.” You say offhandedly, to try and break the tension that has filled the room.

Root accepts the change of subject without protest, possibly even she has reached her limit of discussing feelings. “Yeah. Very irresponsible, to send it from her personal email like that.” She says, with a smug look on her face. 

Martine’s brief stint as an aspiring terrorist was not the only unusual event that cropped up in the aftermath of Root’s harassment. One of the boys found that his laptop had somehow accrued so much malware that it simply ceased to function, and the other discovered that all his social media accounts had been locked, and were posting uncomfortable insinuations about him seemingly of their own accord. You knew Root wasn’t timid, obviously, since she was never even slightly cowed by you, and you were vaguely aware that she was probably brilliant, but you are somewhat surprised by how vicious she is. Surprised, and impressed. And maybe you think it’s kind of hot. But instead of making that embarrassing confession, you say, “So I guess you didn’t really need my help.”

“Maybe not. But it was very sweet of you to rescue me like that.” She grins slyly. “Maybe I can make it up to you?”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow. 

Root is so excited that you’re actually playing along with her flirting that it takes her a moment to form her next sentence. “Yes. I have many…” she stops and licks her lips. “…talents.” she winks at you.

She’s trying to be suave, but she can’t stop grinning, and it bothers you how cute she is. “Oh yeah?” you say. “Like what? Endless innuendo? Invading people’s personal space?”

“I can do both of those right now if you want me to, Sameen.” She winks at you again.

“And you look ridiculous when you wink.”

She fake-pouts. “That wasn’t very nice, sweetie. Now _you_ ’ll have to make it up to _me_.” 

“OK, fine.” you roll your eyes, not deigning to acknowledge the nickname. “I’ll go see a movie with you. But if it’s a romance, I’m walking out.”

***

Root is not bullied again after ‘the incident: part two.’ Messing with Root is messing with you, and nobody messes with you. Root also acquires a sort of legendary status among certain cliques. No one, as far as you know, has made a direct connection between her and the spate of technological retribution, but there are rumors that she has some sort of communion with the occult. You feel reasonably certain that these rumors were both started and encouraged by Root herself, through anonymous posts on message boards and elsewhere.

Your routine continues, largely unchanged.

Well, maybe a few things changed.

“Hey.” You say to Root over lunch. “That top looks good on you.” She looks up, surprised, then smiles so widely you’re worried her face will split in half.

***

You and Root go to see a movie, which you’re pretty sure she thinks is a date, since about a quarter of the way through the movie, she completely unsubtly puts her arm around you and leans her head on your shoulder. But you don’t really mind, and her whispered commentary throughout the movie makes you laugh. 

Root sometimes grabs your hand and holds onto it, and you let her, because it makes her happy, and you like her better when she’s happy.

You don’t know if you’re happy. You don’t know if happiness is something you can feel, or if you’d recognize it if you did. 

But you’re content. Having Root beside you feels right.

***

You ask to be excused in math class. Shaw looks up at you, but you don’t glance back as you walk out. Don’t want to give it away. You’re going to surprise her. You exit the classroom and proceed purposefully down the hall, nodding seriously to anyone you pass. You reach your locker, open it, and remove the items you stored several days ago. 

You think of Shaw a few days ago, single-handedly taking on your would-be harassers. Of course, really, you would have been fine. Not like you’ve never been bullied before. But she was amazing. It’s probably the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you. Well, in fairness, it’s probably the only romantic thing anyone has ever done for you. You thought about kissing her after. 

Well honestly you think about that most of the time anyway. But it would have been a great time for it.

You pass the computer lab; the door’s open. You wonder if they lock it after school’s over for the day? Then you wonder how hard it would be to get in the school after dark. Have to pick the lock. Unless you could get in through a window. Maybe open one during the day, go in after?

Hmm, that’s a good idea. You need to mark it down in the .txt file on your laptop labeled ‘date ideas.’

You and Shaw go on lots of dates. She doesn’t call them dates, though, but that’s OK. Part of being a good girlfriend is pretending you’re not really dating, if your girlfriend is uncomfortable with that kind of thing.

But you’re totally dating. A few days ago you were a bit late making your nightly call to her, and she sent you something like a dozen texts asking if you were OK. Then she kept leaning closer to you during the movie, which obviously was a sign that she wanted you put your arm around her, which you did. And she said you looked pretty in your red top (which you now wear all the time). So, definitely dating.

And as her girlfriend, it’s your job to protect her.

You stop in front of the janitor’s supply closet, take a quick look around to make sure no one’s watching, and open the door with a key from your pocket. Hmm, you think, looking around at the bottles and boxes of cleaners. More of a selection than you had anticipated. You quickly look at the labels, and pick one that looks promising. You lock the door behind you and carry on down the hall.

This is the most delicate part of the plan, since you look very suspicious carrying a large bottle of cleaner. You’ve staked out the area the last few days, learning the patterns, finding the blind spots. You should be fine.

Someone is coming down the hall. OK, improvise. Do what a guilty person wouldn’t. “Hi!” You say brightly. “I’m supposed to bring this to the nurse’s office, but I can’t find it. Mind helping me out?” The guy points you on down the hall, and you say, “Thanks!” and keep walking. It’s fun sneaking around, but it’s even more fun when someone catches you and you still get away with it. Your heart’s pumping hard now; this is exhilarating. Too bad you couldn’t bring Shaw. She would like this. 

Shaw is the most amazing person you’ve ever met. She’s constantly looking out for you, trying to protect you from anything and everything that could hurt you, even herself. And she doesn’t think she’s able to care about anyone. She’s very smart, you know this, but sometimes she can be very dumb.

She’s told you how she wants to be a doctor. Well, maybe she’s never said all those words in that order exactly, but you knew what she meant. And people telling her she couldn’t only made her want it more. You feel so proud of her you think your chest might explode, and you once again feel furious at anyone who ever made her think there was anything wrong with her.

Shaw thinks she’s a wall, but she’s more like an open wound. She doesn’t even know she has feelings, so she doesn’t know to protect them. And that’s OK, it just means you have to protect them for her.

You won’t let anyone hurt her.

You stop in front of a door with a shiny silver placard that reads:

JOHN GREER: THERAPIST

***

Root comes back in the classroom, looking very pleased with herself. She looks like that most of the time, though, so you’re not sure whether this lends any insight into her activities. 

About ten minutes after she sits back down, a piercing siren goes off. The teacher stops midway through an explanation of the quadratic formula, which is just as well, since you’re pretty sure everyone had tuned out already. Mutters start to break out around you; “Another fire drill?” “Dude, we’re getting out of math today!” “Do you smell smoke?” The teacher, sounding somewhat flustered, says, “All right everyone, you know the drill. Let’s make our way outside, calmly.”

***

Students are milling around the parking lot and surrounding grounds, drifting in all directions, while several adults try to herd them back together. The entire building has been evacuated, and distant sirens of fire engines are heard. You’re sitting on the curb in the parking lot, Root, as always, beside you. You both watch as the firefighters pull in, horns and lights blaring. They jump out, briefly confer with one of the teachers, and rush inside the building. Two kids standing nearby talk loud enough for you to hear. One says, “I heard it started in the kitchen. All that vile shit they cook up, probably the poisonous fumes caught on fire.” The other; “You dumbass, it started in Mr. Greer’s office. They _just_ said that.” “Who are you calling dumbass, shithead?!”

You look at Root. She’s not looking at you, but you can tell that this is only by extreme effort. She’s not able to keep the edges of her mouth from turning up slightly. “You could get caught.” You say flatly.

“He smokes.” She says. “Not supposed to, but he does. They’ll find used cigarettes in the room. It’s his own fault. Smoking is bad for your health.” She turns to you now, grinning from ear to ear.

You look at her, and wonder how you ever ended up with her as a friend. This girl who thinks a sociopath is her soulmate, this person who adores you for the thing that makes everyone else scared of you, this lunatic who set an office on fire to cheer you up. 

Oh what the hell, you think, and kiss her.

 

 

 

 

 

**Epilogue**

 

“When did you know that you liked girls?”

“I don’t like anyone.”

“Except me.”

“Yeah. Except you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading my story about socially maladjusted children.


End file.
